Our Story Map created by Luna-Reynn for the current model text: The Rhythm of Water

Our Model Text for Term 1:

The Rhythm of Water.

Deep in the forest, where tall trees stretched towards the sky, there lived a young beaver called Bramble.  He was different from the other beavers. While they loved splashing, swimming and building enormous dams, Bramble loved music and he loved how the forest seemed to come alive around him. Drip, drip, drip. The rain drummed on the leaves. Whoosh, whoosh. The wind whistled through the branches. Splash! The river rushed over the smooth stones like a silver ribbon dancing through the forest. To Bramble, the whole forest was making music.

One sunny morning, Bramble wandered down to the river. He picked up two little sticks and began to tap them together. Tap, tap…  TAP! Bramble smiled. His heart fluttered with excitement. He tapped faster. Tap‑tap‑tap‑tap! Then he tapped along with the river. Tap, splash, tap, splash! But suddenly, Bramble heard laughter behind him. The other beavers were busy building their dam.  “What are you doing?” one of them demanded. “Beavers don’t make music!” another teased. Bramble’s smile disappeared. His ears drooped like falling leaves. He tapped away on his sticks, his chest tight and heavy. The forest didn’t sound musical anymore. Its song had turned into a gloomy whisper.

As the sun set, Bramble stood alone beside the dam. He felt small and unsure. Perhaps he really was too different. Then he heard something. Splish… splash…ROAR! In an instant, he realised that the mighty flood was coming. It rushed towards the dam, roaring like a lion, charging like a bull and crashing like a thousand drums. There was no time, the raging, silver wall of water tore through the dam and threw him as fast as an express train onto the forest floor.  Darkness filled his eyes.

When he came to, all was calm.  The amber autumn leaves made tiny, dappled and golden sunlight patterns on the moss around him, and he scampered towards the sounds of frogs – ribbit, ribbit.  Parting the tall, brown and bushy bulrushes, he peered through to see that the frogs had built a dam with rocks. This one, however, had sticks squeezed in the gaps between the rocks to let miniscule jets of water flow through, like silver, fairy waterfalls.  What a good idea, thought Bramble!

He rushed back to share his knowledge with the rest of the colony. Would they take any notice of him? No, the leader angrily ripped his sticks out of the dam. But Bramble did not give up. Later in the silent, silvery and moonlit night, Bramble and his friend were busy collecting hollow sticks to use in the dam. Whilst the other beavers slept on, they worked tirelessly to finish their construction.  Drip, drip, drip, the heavy raindrops began to fall. The white lightning shot across the velvety black sky like a piece of cloth ripped in half.  The flood was coming. Would the dam hold? Would Bramble save the day?